


what's the worst that could happen to a girl who's already hurt?

by lavenderss



Category: Elite (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Enemies to Lovers, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Making Up, basically a completely unrealistic s3 rewrite, if fast burn existed this would be it, post-s2, yeray doesn't exist
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-11
Updated: 2021-01-11
Packaged: 2021-03-15 23:02:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,312
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28696641
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lavenderss/pseuds/lavenderss
Summary: “How could you do that to me?”It's almost funny. After what he's done to her. He's the one who's angry. After he tricked her and humiliated her and scarred herheart.It's not funny at all.OR: Yeray doesn't exist and we get proper Carmuel content in S3! Everyone is forgiving after the initial angst, Polo doesn't go into the lion's den and get himself killed and we are happy.
Relationships: Carla Rosón Caleruega/Samuel García Domínguez
Comments: 17
Kudos: 61





	what's the worst that could happen to a girl who's already hurt?

**Author's Note:**

> hi! i started this months ago but never finished it. fast forward to today, i was having writer's block, elite week happened, the prompt was favourite trope and i went mMMMm enemies to lovers mMMm carmuel. so here you go. this is basically everything that would never happen in s3, every cliché slapped on top of each other but i've decided that happy is all we need and i finally finished something after 2 weeks so this is a success in my books. have fun reading.  
> (don't judge too harshly pls, i started writing this in may or something)

“You ruined everything.”

Carla isn't immune to guilt. She's actually feeling very guilty about lying in court. It's just that the director's piercing eyes aren't the reason.

The reason is sitting ten metres behind her, head in his hands. The reason is the boy who got her into this mess in the first place (well, into the second part of the mess – the first one, she caused herself, Carla isn't delusional). The reason why she's feeling guilty is the boy who now probably hates her, as he should, and whom she should hate too but somehow still doesn't.

Her eyes flood with tears when she walks round him; it's not her fault that despite everything, her idiotic feelings didn't evaporate.

Carla really hates herself at that moment.

She really hates _him_ when he stands up and grabs her wrist roughly, stopping her in her walk and delaying the moment she'll be able to lock herself in the bathroom and cry in the shower. “We need to talk.”

It's merely the unprecedent of the situation that causes her to obediently follow him outside. It's merely the fact that she can't go home and face her father telling her she did the _right thing_ , face her mother's disappointment, and would rather sit with Samuel in a silent taxi.

Samuel, she can deal with. After she realized that he tricked her, she covered her heart with a layer of metal. She doesn't realize that his presence is what makes it corrode until they finally reach his apartment without saying a word, he slams the door behind them and barks, eyes raging, tone accusatory.

“How could you do that to me?”

It's almost funny. After what he's done to her. He's the one who's angry. After he tricked her and humiliated her and scarred her _heart_.

It's not funny at all.

“What _I_ did to you?” She pauses; he's still furious. His rage only feeds hers. “ _I_ did nothing to _you_. _You_ used me.”

“You lied.”

“Oh, Samuel.” He's so gullible, like he believes that people are inherently more good than bad. “What else was I supposed to do?”

“Tell the truth, maybe!” He's genuinely upset, like she broke his trust, but that's bullshit, because they never had anything even remotely similar to trust, and she won't allow him to make her feel like shit.

Or, that's what she's consciously telling herself, but she knows that under all of her anger, guilt will creep up nonetheless. The current objective is to extinguish it at least temporarily, so that it doesn't show itself in front of Samuel.

He might be angry now, furious even; she still prefers that to pity.

“Right. I should've told the truth,” she spits out sarcastically. “For what? To lose my family, for my childhood boyfriend to get thrown in jail, to be investigated? It's not gonna help anyone hurt less! It won't bring Marina back!” She doesn't believe her own words, but everyone knows that Carla is a good liar. “Why should I inflict more suffering on other people?” she asks theatrically, hoping there's not even a hint of _shaky_ in her voice.

Samuel stays quiet for a few seconds, gazing on the sticky floor. When he speaks, it's almost a whisper. “For me.”

Carla has a lot of good responses to that, but none of them want to leave her mouth.

“I don't know,” Samuel continues, head still bowing down. “I just thought that maybe what we had – meant something for you. That you would-”

After that statement, all of her well-thought of lines suddenly want to be vocalized at once. Carla takes a step towards him, skin stone-cold, and grabs his wrist roughly. “ _For you?_ Why would I do anything for you, when all you did was play me! You made it crystal-clear that we had _nothing_ when I came here and poured my heart out to you, and then for the second time when you made me believe you were _dead_! You're the one who ripped me to pieces, and now you want fucking favours?” She chokes; she isn't sure when she started screaming. “You don't even need this anymore, Nano is out of the fucking country! You ruined my life for nothing, and you ruined _us_!”

“There can be no _us_ if you don't stop lying!” Samuel yells ravingly. “I just wanted the truth!”

“Right.” That hurt. Carla masks it with arrogance, but the protective layer over her heart is practically dissolving in Samuel's acids. “You just wanted the truth, you don't care about me. So, why should I care about you?”

“I do care about you! I just had to do the right thing!”

“The _right thing_?” From her calm voice back to screaming in a matter of seconds; she is being hysterical, something that never happens. It's almost exhilarating to let out all of her pent-up emotions, if it also wasn't really fucking stupid. “You're so fucking delusional! Marina didn't love you! You don't own her the right thing or anything else!”

 _You didn't have to pick her over me,_ she almost adds, but is fortunately smart enough not to.

“It's called justice,” Samuel throws in her face. “How could you know what that is, with the parents you have.”

It stings. Carla's hand moves on its own accord, a déjà vu from a month ago unfolding, except this time, Samuel stops it and holds it in the air, his grip full of fury.

“Let me go.” She retorts to ice, knowing her meltdown is over. She finally sees that they won't solve anything. They're toxic, they're doomed, they don't have a chance and it was pathetically naive of her when she allowed herself to think that they could overcome the circumstances.

“Tell me you don't give a shit about me.” His voice cuts like a blade. “Tell me you don't give a shit about Marina.” A shiver strikes through Carla's spine. “Tell me that's why you did it.”

“I thought you didn't care why I did it,” she fights back, his touch burning. She did it because she's a coward, and she's pretty sure he knows.

“It was because of _him_ , wasn't it?”

 _Oh my god_ , Carla thinks.

Samuel spits out his words with a bitterness that Carla knows all too well. “It was because of him. You love him. You loved him the entire time, and all you did to me was – lie.”

He's _jealous_.

It's _pathetic_.

She's relieved. It means that she isn't the only one who, amidst a murder investigation and purgatory charges, is thinking about notions of teenage love. How, when she found out that Samuel's disappearance was a bluff, the first thought that went through her head was: _He loved Marina more than me. He loves her still, and never loved me at all._

Wheteher that is true or not, Carla isn't sure, but it brings her a great sense of satisfaction to know that Samuel and his paranoid, self-absorbed romantically spoiled thoughts are wrong entirely. “What would you do if I _had_ done it for him?” she provokes, eyes firmly locked.

Samuel doesn't twitch, but pulls her wrist a bit closer to himself. Carla's eyes flick to his lips and she knows what the both of them are thinking.

_This isn't going anywhere. If we go on like this, we will end up sufferring._

They already are.

They lean in at the same time. Carla tastes the anger and despair, she feels the _wrong_ in the way he bites her lip almost making it bleed, she inflicts the pain that's striking through her arm because Samuel still didn't let go, biting back, and then presses her torso on his while her legs make his part.

Already hard.

This boy has a problem.

He doesn't say anything, just returns to the aggressive kiss, pulling on her hair. Carla bites and scratches and grinds, desperately grunting when Samuel's hand lets go of her hair and travels down her back to the needier regions of her body.

Maybe if she hadn't listened to her needs so much, she wouldn't be in this situation. All of her leftover rationale is gone when Samuel gets his way under her white dress (so that she'd seem all innocent in court, oh the irony) and roughly rubs against the covering lace, finding it soaked.

She doesn't make a sound, she won't give him the satisfaction. She supresses the groan when he blindly pushes her panties aside and introduces a finger.

Carla bites her lip and sticks her fingernails into Samuel's shoulders. They're standing fully dressed in the middle of his living room, and all of this is strangely reminiscent of their first encounter, except this time is even more fucked up. If Carla wasn't in the middle of a somewhat unnecessary foreplay laced with hate, she would have realized that Samuel must have left his jacket in the car, because he had it before at the courthouse but now it's not in the apartment, she sure as hell didn't undress him and now he's only wearing a shirt - which is way better for her if she wants her scratches to actually get to him.

He groans when she starts unbuttoning it and yanks it over his head instead of waiting. All the better for Carla, at least she can focus on his zipper.

Her dress is way too long for their liking and gets in the way; she lets him pull her out of it, recognizing a ripping sound (she hates the dress anway; it's permanently stained with guilt, with pain, with dirt) and a plop on the ground right next to her coat which fell off her shoulders even before the kiss.

She only fights for the act of it when he carries her a few steps and pushes her down onto the couch, immediately hovering over her and releasing his dick out of his pants. Carla doesn't have to wait long because if she's eager, he's the same but twice, and he starts pumping into her at mad speed right from the begginning.

“Oh, fuck,” she allows herself a tiny vocal slip-up when he throws her leg around his shoulder and goes deeper. She drapes herself up with all the coordination she can muster, reaches for his back and lets him kiss her.

So what. They can still fuck while they hate each other. They have a lot of practice.

Samuel pants into her mouth, thrusts harder, and she forgets for a second that she's supposed to hate him altogether.

“Did he fuck you the way I do?” Samuel whispers into her ear and Carla very nearly loses it.

 _No_ , the answer is that he didn't, but she doesn't see how admitting that will help their situation. “What if he did,” she whimpers, feeling Samuel's hands gripping her waist and undoubtedly traveling downwards.

“I'd say that you were lying.” Samuel is no fool. The way in which he presses his knuckles into the one free gap between their bodies is testimony to that.

Carla reaches for his face and shuts him up with a kiss. This whole thing is bad enough even if they don't use the murderer who ruined the both of their lives' in their sexual fantasies.

¤

They don't stop.

It's weird because something should be different, considering how he'd disappeared and she confessed to hiding a murder, but everything really is the same as before. She's lonely, he's angry and they fuck. Polo came to school once, Guzmán unsurprisisngly jumped at him, his mothers made a huge deal about getting an IP and _losing their trust in this school and only not taking Polo out because it makes no sense 5 months before graduation_. Now nobody knows what to think, so most people direct their anger at Carla, because it's easier to go with the de juro version, with the exception of Samuel, who directs his at both.

Speaking of Samuel: they also still (pretend to?) hate each other. They practically don't speak anytime she comes over, there is next to zero contact between them at school, and Carla is successfully claiming to her father and Lu (if the brunette is in the mood to come check up on her – even though Lu doesn't believe her anymore, she still has a weak spot), that the fling between her and Samuel was a mistake that is completely over.

It isn't. They're officially enemies with benefits; all of their encounters stay the same. She comes over, he accuses her of ruining his life, she accuses him of ruining hers, they each think that this doesn't make sense so loud that their brains are practically screaming, then they fuck. It's happened five times in the past two weeks from hell, but who's counting?

Maybe Carla. It's really sad how fucking the guy who's trying his hardest to hate her but can't fully succeed at it because she's too hot, is the highlight of her current life.

Lu and her don't really speak, her family is practically in ruins, and the closest thing to a friend she has is the aforementioned boy who's told her that she was evil an hour ago before fucking her against the wall.

But right now, she's lying in his bed, tucked under the blanket. There isn't anything to give off the explosive nature of them when they're together; she's just come out of the shower, wearing his big shirt (let it be said that he's still a good host, unless she leaves on her own, he lets her sleep over and uses the couch himself), and is now on her back under the sheets, staring at the ceiling.

Unlike the other times, he's lying next to her, their bodies set perfectly parallel.

Parallels never touch.

If anything, they are a married couple giving each other the passive-agressive silent treatment after a fight. Of couse it's not pleasant to lie there with that hanging over her head.

Still, she'd much rather be there than at home.

She stares at the ceiling, focusing on the corner. There's a dark stain, probably the aftermath of Samuel's upstairs neighbour flooding. She's sure there must be mold growing in the wall under it.

In situations like these, when she focuses on the shadow of wet wallpaint, is when she thinks about how vastly different her and Samuel's lives are. What she doesn't even think about, because she's just _entitled_ to have it, is an unresolvable problem for him.

Just then, she can empathize with the powerless feeling he must have all the time – the thought that nothing he could possibly do will make a difference. The desperation to turn the tables. The tiny spark of hope he lives with, that just _has to do_.

She doesn't say she forgives him. Definitely not. The fact that he has a moldy wall doesn't make him anything other than an asshole with a health hazard for allergics in his apartment.

But she moves her head the slightest bit towards his shoulder, which rests on the same pillow, but it's still as if there is a line.

He tilts his head, his curls brush her cheek, and they're two puzzle pieces that don't quite fit but could if you bent them a little.

They lie for a while, and it's definitely more comfortable. She feels his breath steady and deep; content as it can be.

“Carla.”

“Yeah?”

Their voices are satin, soft and calm. It's a stark change from any other day in the past few weeks.

“I'm sorry.”

Carla squeezes her eyes shut, forces the invasive tears back and rolls her head so that she's staring straight up again. She opens her eyes, ignores the stain, and breathes out.

“I'm sorry, too.”

He doesn't say anything, but drapes his arm over her and flips her over, so that they're facing each other in a hug. Carla buries her face in his t-shirt, breathes in his scent of sickly sweet store-brand softener, and lets a little smile tug on her lips.

They stay like that for a long time. When he pushes himself up, making her head fall back down onto the pillow, Carla feels her heart dropping into her stomach and shattering into a thousand little pieces.

“I'm getting kinda hungry. What about you?”

Her heart re-binds its filaments on its own and flies back up to her chest.

“Yeah,” she says, small and shy. She collects herself to sit when he's already out the door – she hears the distant sound of the microwave – her gaze drops to her unpainted toenails and she wonders what this means.

Hopefully, something positive, because Carla is tired of her life being the shitfest of misery it is.

“Where are you? It's ready,” a curly head sticks out from behind the doorframe. Carla looks at him and inspects his facial expression – a bit of insecurity, a hint of something else. She exhales with relief.

“I'm coming,” she gets up and pretends not to notice Samuel's little smile when she purposely brushes against him, coming out into the living room. “What's on the menu today?”

He scrunches his nose sort of adorably and Carla bites her lip in amusement when she discovers two plates of macaroni with tomato sauce.

“You really never eat anything else, do you?” she remarks, settling cross-legged on the couch with the plate on her bare, bent legs. They're being casual, yet still definitely careful; for one, Carla's trying really hard not to get the sauce on his shirt.

“Not really, no,” he affirms, spinning his fork inbetween his fingers. “But sometimes, for the fun of it, I make spaghetti instead of macaroni.”

“Or penne, if you're feeling extra fancy,” Carla jokes a little, positive that she's not out of line yet. “What a culinary range.”

He shrugs and forks a few pieces. “Yeah, it's kinda boring I guess. But you can't really mess up pasta, it lasts in the fridge, and it boils quick, so-”

“I haven't even cooked pasta in my life,” Carla says gently, throwing herself under the bus. He seems genuinely ashamed or something, and she's pretty sure they should keep the conversation as light-hearted as possible, because the tension is still very much in the air. “So, I really appreciate you making this for us.”

She blurts it out without thinking, and immediately curses at herself, but Samuel doesn't seem to be thrown off. “Maybe I'll make something else next time,” he proposes quietly.

Carla looks him in the eyes and feels a spark of understanding transmit.She gives him a hesitant smile before focusing on her plate and taking another bite.

“Anyway, what would you like? Some sort of – chicken?”

Carla involuntarily giggles and feels a splash of tomato sauce drip from the dropped fork onto her leg. No casualties on Samuel's white shirt, though, which is good. “ _Chicken?_ ”

“I don't know, that's what the skinny popular girls in American films eat,” he shrugs uncomfortably. “But I guess that you like something more – I don't know. Fancy. Caviar, or something?”

The way he sees the world in stereotypes is cute, if a little bit insulting, and Carla sets the plate down on the table before shuffling towards Samuel and taking his free hand into hers. He drops his fork immediately and directs all of his attention to her, just his eyes tick warily between her face and the pasta on the table. “Samuel,” she says gently, “I don't give a fuck about what food you cook. I literally couldn't care less. As long as it's,” she tilts her head pensievely, “Well, edible.”

She's taken off guard by the kiss, if not by the act itself, then definitely by its tenderness. Samuel's hand gently lifting her chin and the way her hands instinctively fall in their place between his neck and cheeks, is definitely the best plot twist of tonight.

She bites her smile when they part, and he gives her a genuine, dimply beam, and she feels the need to kiss him herself this time, so that he knows the feeling is mutual.

¤

Her reconciliation with Lu happens on accident. She goes to the bathroom, realizes the foundation covering her hickey is wearing off (don't ask) and is busy with her beauty blender in front of the mirror, when she hears unmistakable muffled puking noises from the furthest stall.

She doesn't have to guess. Only Lu is this good at throwing up silently; other people might not have heard, but not Carla.

She knows her habits in and out. She also knows that Valerio unexpectedly coming back in the middle of college application season can't be good for Lu's already abnormally high stress levels.

She could pretend that she was never there, but she finds out that she doesn't want to, and when she opens the shitty lock from from outside just by turning it and finds Lu with pretty much her entire palm stuck down her throat and melted mascara around her eyes, she's glad that she didn't.

“Lu,” she whispers gently, dropping down on the gray tiles and banging her head against the wall.

Lu doesn't even turn around, just tears piece of toilet paper from the roll matter-of-factly, wipes her mouth and flushes. She then gets another piece and taps around her eyes.

“I have makeup _and_ remover here,” Carla proposes, stretching out to take Lu's hand hand only shivering slightly when she hits a piece of puke.

Lu sniffs and eventually mutters something that could be interpreted as an affirmation.

“What is it?” Carla asks gently, Lu's head falls on her shoulder and they both know that the talk of re-doing her makeup was premature.

“My dad pretty much disowned me,” Lu rattles in Carla's arms, wetting her blouse with bitter tears. “And he's not gonna pay for my college. I have to get a scholarship and Valerio has nowhere to live and it was all just too much so I-”

Carla slides through Lu's thick and smooth hair gently, wondering how Lu's stubborness manages to win against the side effects of bulimia. “Shh. It's gonna be fine.”

They're out by the mirror in five minutes time, so that they'll make their math lesson. In Lu's world, even mental breakdowns have to fit into an agenda.

“And what is this I'm seeing?” she scrunches her nose at Carla's concealing attempts. “Don't tell me you and pizza boy hit it off again.”

Carla bites her lip and decides not to poke the sleeping dragon by trying to lie unsuccessfully. “Kinda. But don't tell anyone.”

“If you're gonna be this inconspicuous all the time, I won't have to,” the clearly displeased Lu snorts, shaking her head.

“It's actually really important, life or death kind of situation,” Carla adds, unconvinced, evaluating her make-up work. “Seriously, you can't tell anyone.”

“Of course I won't tell anyone,” Lu throws her head back irritatedly. “What do you-”

She stops mid-sentence and bites her lip. Carla sees remorse invade her face. “Thanks,” she remarks, sparing Lu of the embarrassment.

“Thanks to you, too,” Lu mutters forcefully casual, then hugs Carla quickly before she can change her mind and then opens the door for them, managing all of it within five seconds. “And I'm sorry.”

Although it's closer to a whisper, Carla still catches it. She grabs Lu's hand and smiles. “Me too.”

Lu smiles back, inspecting Carla's face, then decides they're probably past the awkward stage and almost presses her lips to Carla's ear, half-covered in blonde hair. “And you're not gonna get out of telling me every single detail about the dirty tricks the pizza boy used to get you.”

Carla shudders, Lu's words hitting a little too close to home. “There were many,” she manages after a short contemplation.

“I should think so,” Lu nods resolutely. “You're a jackpot, and he's a – well, he's maybe a scratch ticket that wins you five euros.”

“Oh, shut up,” Carla pushes Lu's shoulder lightly. “You know that you secretly think he's cute.”

She wishes she could take a picture of the absolutely aggravated look Lu shoots her.

(It's nothing in comparison with the looks Lu provides her with when she, accompanied by a glass of wine, recites their whole history splouched by Lu's pool, occassionally dipping their toes in the water.

“But he used you, Carla! He betrayed you and he deceived you! You should cut off his dick instead of sit on it!” Lu fights aggravatedly.

“Yeah, I guess he used me,” Carla shrugs, “But at least he was nice about it. Other people aren't really that upfront when they're trying to manipulate you, but he was. And then again, I was doing the same thing, so-”

“Oh my god, Carla,” Lu sighs in resignation, “You're literally going insane from being in love.”

“Oh, please,” Carla retorts, ignoring the leap her heart has just made, “I'm not in _love_.”

“Honey, if you confess to a crime you've been hiding because of your fear for a guy and then forgive him when you find out that it was a plot, you're definitely in love. Or you caught a fast-progressing brain disease.”

 _Maybe it's the same thing,_ Carla thinks.)

¤

She brings it up a few days later, leaning against the armrest of Samuel's couch and eating spinach gnocchi. It's still pasta, but certainly a different variation, she'll give him that, and the sauce he's made is surprisingly good, taste-wise at least. She's choosing to ignore the lumps. “I told Lu about us.”

She searches for a trace of negative emotion on his face, but doesn't find any. “Okay,” Samuel says instead, mouth full of food.

“You're not mad?”

“Should I be?”

“I don't know,” Carla tries to sound relaxed and fails, “Considering that we don't even know what _us_ is, maybe?”

“I like being with you,” he states plainly, disarming her with that look he has. It's the look that he has when they're fucking, and he says her name, _Carla_ , like it's something precious, after a kiss that she initiated, or when she's furrowing her brows at a difficult question in their math homework. It's the look of absolute openness, bared and honest and full of adoration, and every time he gives it to her, Carla feels like she's someone special, and for the right reasons, too. “Anyway, I know that we're in a slightly delicate situation, but I've been thinking about telling people for some time.”

“Really?” Carla's not in the correct mood to hear such a shocking declaration singlehandedly thrown into normal conversation. She's wearing his ACDC shirt (suspects that it was originally Nano's and it's a little freaky), and a minute ago they were talking about how he had slime stuck to his ceiling for five years, for fuck's sake. Okay, maybe she started, but he's the one who's pushing it.

“Yeah. I mean,” he clicks his lips, “What's the worst that could happen?”

Bad question.

“Seriously. You'd tell everyone, including Guzmán,” she evades, trying to make sense of the raging panic in her head. “Hey, I'm dating Carla, even though she took her confession back and Polo's still roaming through the city.”

 _Fuck._ If Samuel hadn't distracted her brain with having to worry about his life, she never would have made such a rookie mistake.

“So, _dating_ , huh,” he's not willing to relieve her of the tragedy that growing red in the face like a tomato, undeniably, is. He's gleaming like a kid who just got his favourite toy. “I should step up my game, then. So far, the most exciting date has been me attempting to make a different kind of sauce.”

“If it makes you feel better, I can taste the improvement,” Carla bumps back swiftly, getting her rudiment partially under control, but her stomach making little excited jumps instead.

“It wasn't too nice of me to let you do the hard part,” Samuel shakes off her half-hearted compliment and turns to her, letting his okay-tasting but curdled sauce to his own fate on the TV table. “Do you want to be my girlfriend, Carla?”

“You're such an idiot,” she states the obvious, then ruffles his hair tenderly and kisses him. “Yeah. But I think we should wait with telling the others,” she adds hesitantly, her hand still in his curls.

“Correct me if I'm wrong,” Samuel brings up lightheartedly, “But you were the one who ranted to me about wanting to go out to dinner like normal people, right before you insulted my cooking skills.”

“Yeah, I guess,” Carla's heart still stings with the memory. “Unfortunately, we're not normal people.”

“If you're worried about Guzmán or Polo-”

“I'm not worried about Guzmán or Polo,” she grunts. “But you're an idiot of you think that my father forgot about the recordings you made and about the shit you pulled after.”

“Carla-”

Her voice grows high-pitched and restless, ignoring Samuel's attempts to interrupt her altogether. “Why do you think that I confessed in the first place? Because I thought my dad killed you, Samuel! The fact that he made me take back the confession and he's not in immediate danger right now doesn't mean that you won't be if he finds out about any of this!”

“Carla-” Samuel tries again gently, tugging a strand of her hair behind her ear, but it's as if Carla doesn't even notice.

“Yes, maybe it sucks that we can't go out and kiss in the middle of the city or at school or whatever, but I still check out the street every day before I leave your place and maybe the number of sleepovers I've allegedly had with Lu is getting ridiculous, but I don't really see a better option! Sue me for not wanting you dead!”

“Carla,” Samuel switches from useless attempts to get her attention to wrapping his arms around her. She's stiff as a statue. “Okay. I get it. We don't have to tell anyone.”

“Thanks,” she murmurs into his chest, breathing in his smell to calm herself.

“Anything for my girlfriend,” he quips.

He's an utterly ridiculous idiot.

Maybe that's why she loves him.

_Shit._

¤

Despite their best efforts, Lu was the one to have been right about their being very bad at this secret thing. It's why she had figured it out the first time, the second time, and why, as she tells Carla during one of their free periods, _everybody will find out soon_.

“We're not that obvious,” Carla argues while shooting Samuel, who's sitting at the other end of the room with Rebeka, a quick glance.

Lu just rolls her eyes, and Carla has to admit that that wasn't the best way to demonstrate her superior skill of self control.

“I think you should just go for it. Nadia is keeping Guzmán in check,” Carla hears the bitterness, “our Bonnie's Clyde is hiding in his house, and really, who's gonna mind so much?”

“It's not that easy, Lu,” Carla sighs, picking off her rice cake grain by grain. She might have a few obsessive compulsive behaviours that she uses to cope when she's upset.

“Would you mind sharing these extreme obstacles holding you back from announcing the pizza infatuation?” Lu's eyebrows scrunch. “Don't tell me you grew common sense and decided _now_ to be embarrassed of him. I mean, that's just evil to him, and even I think a bit too much. Pizza boy won't handle it we-”

Carla sighs and shoots Lu an annoyed look. “Don't call him that.”

Lu bites her lip amusedly. “What, did they promote him to chinese delivery?”

“Christ, Lu, you can be so-”

“I know,” Lu interrupts Carla, who's opted to aggressively bite into her snack instead of finishing her indignant sentence. Her tone is less light-hearted and more conciliatory than Carla would've expected. “But you still haven't told me what the issue is.”

“Nothing,” Carla murmurs. “Just forget about it.”

Lu exhales exasperatedly and flips through her binder, each papery sound more aggressive than the last one. “So, you're doing this again?”

It's meant to make Carla feel guilty, and it does, except it also kind of pisses her off. “It's not like you're particularly open about your love life with me.”

“Mainly because of the _lack_ of my love life,” Lu points out begrudgingly, ripping her premium-wage paper against the circle of her binder as she turns it over just to give herself an outlet. She curses loudly at her perfection of physics notes that she colour-codes by units. Carla uses the same pretty pink highlighter for everything. “Seriously.”

“Maybe I just like being mysterious,” she clutches on desperately, suddenly aware of the fact that the classroom is filling with people and Lu is everything but quiet. “Lu, please, don't start with this again.”

It sounded more desperate than she wanted to show, but based on the way Lu's eyes soften as her gaze leaves the note-debacle and looks at Carla, it was worth it. “Fine.”

Crisis averted.

¤

Temporarily.

Carla doesn't know Cayetana. She never really knew her, and she never really cared about her, with a small exception of pretty directly causing the whole escapade that wholly ruined Carla's life. (No, think about it. The scam outraged Lu, she exposed Carla and Samuel along with everyone, Carla thought Samuel was dead and – here they are.)

However, now Cayetana is apparently dating Polo. Carla knows that because Cayetana is not even trying to hide the fact that she brings him homework while he's in a sensible self-imposed quarantine. Carla doesn't know what will happen to her now that she's said she'd made it up, but according to her father, _the issue was solved_. Issues being solved by her father always mean that much greater ones will emerge, but Carla's too busy scheduling secret dates at Samuel's apartment and in the girls' locker room (it's free on Thursdays, no P.E.) to intrigue what he means by that. So far, nobody is in jail.

She's trying so hard to tiptoe around this weird feeling of peace and serenity to try and ruin it by voicing the dread, steadily growing with each second of undeserved calm.

(She doesn't tell that to Samuel either. _Especially_ not to Samuel.)

Everything is fine; her Lu excuses work well, especially because now Lu is intent on helping her. Polo is safely behind his mansion gates, and everything is as okay as it can be. Carla's brain is running on autopilot, focusing on the clear getaway from all this shit and her house she'll get in five months, and deliberately trying to forget about the fact that Samuel's definitely not picking between Colombia and LSU.

She shouldn't be picking between Colombia and LSU either; her main objective for the past four years has always been to get as far away from here as possible. It's kind of funny that even the Carla before Marina, the Carla that was an entirely different person altogether, had this subconscious desire to flee.

Now that she should be feeling it more than ever, she's looked up schools in Barcelona and wondered whether that will be far enough.

Wondered whether that will be _close_ enough, too.

Her mind juggles with all too much at the same time. She hasn't even tried to bring it up yet. How should she? They're just-

They're them.

“We need to talk.”

And this is where Carla's disinterest in Cayetana doesn't pay off: Polo's waiting in front of her car in the parking lot, elbows crossed in front of his chest. It doesn't take Carla even a second to figure out that his defensive pose in his only defense _mechanism_ from breaking down as a bundle of nerves and falling down on the concrete.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” she hisses, and if Polo didn't look on the verge of collapsing already, she'd push him to get him to realize what utter stupidity he is doing. “I went before Guzmán. Shit, Polo, get in the car.”

“I'm not here because of Guzmán,” Polo says, voice a bit too high-pitched. If Carla wasn't so stressed right now, she'd roll her eyes – obviously Polo's not here to get another beating.

“Can't you just meet with your girlfriend somewhere else,” she barks, ignoring the weird feeling in her gut as she refers to Polo's _girlfriend_. Polo's girlfriend that isn't _her_. Five years of a relationship does that to you. “I'm pretty sure she could live without having an escort from school.”

“What?” Polo's eyes flash hastily between her and the students behind them. Carla gives it another two seconds before she'll kick him into her car or something, using all of her limited self-control not to turn around and praying Guzmán is not a part of the crowd. “I'm not here because of Cayetana. I'm here because we need to talk.”

“So you had to come to school to talk to me?” Carla loses her patience and looks over her shoulder briefly. She might be hallucinating, but that also doesn't mean that the buzzcut _can't_ belong to Guzmán. “I'm trying to survive here, and you're not helping. Not all of us can hide away.”

“It's not like it isn't because of you,” Polo spits out, colour seeping out of his irises. Carla knows what that means, and she also knows that this will be a problem.

“Polo,” she says, pleading now, brushing her hand over his. It's shaking. “Please. Get in the car.”

He exhales heavily, lingering on her. “Okay.”

Carla looks around one last time, trying to hide the desperate panic raging inside of her. _Shit, shit, shit._

She tells the driver to go to Polo's first and darkens the window on her side. “What's so important,” she asks next, authority firm in her muted voice. “That you had to come and risk this bullshit.”

Polo twitches.“You're ignoring me.”

Jesus Christ. The emotions are bubbling inside of her in a weird, corrosive mixture. It's impossible to look at Polo and not feel sorry for him. He looks – thin. Pale. Miserable.

“You blocked me.” _Whiney._

“You have to wait it out,” Carla ignores, mixing tender with matter-of-fact deliberately. “Just five months of homeschool and then you can get lost and go somewhere else. You can start a new life.” _One that won't fuck with mine._ “We both can.”

“You're with him.” Polo's voice doesn't waiver, but he's stubbornly staring at his entwined fingers. “You're still with the _waiter_.” He spits it out derogatorily, like he can't wait to get the poison out of his throat.

“You're with the thief,” Carla deflects, trying to untangle her stormy mess of feelings. This isn't a conversation she'd wanted to have in the foreseeable future. One she thought she wouldn't have to have, thanks to Polo's prior, admirable soundness.

“That's different,” he breaks the silence, tone growing restless. “Cayetana helped me. _He_ fucked you over.”

Cayetana _helped_ him – well, Carla has one more reason to hate that wannabe Valley girl now. Polo's tone didn't leave her any space for doubt. “I don't see how that's your problem.”

“You don't see how that's my problem? He's the reason we're in this mess!” Polo barks out, veins in his hands pulsing. Now he's squeezing them together tightly; Carla hears a crack. “He's the reason my life is ruined!”

“You're the reason _his_ life is ruined,” Carla hisses, caution thrown out the window. “You killed someone and you're in the free. I don't think you should be feeling anything but _fucking grateful_ right now.”

Polo gasps, but Carla's too deranged to analyze his future responses. Her head is spinning. “You ruined my life, Polo! You ruined it because I had to help you!” Tears wither in her eyes. “You killed the girl who taught me how to braid my hair and the first person I got drunk with! You killed her and then I had to cover it up and then live in fear for months, and now I'll have live with _this_ for the rest of my life, so the last thing you could do is leave me alone when I try to be happy!”

“C- Car-”

“Don't,” she shakes him off. She doesn't know what effect his hand on her shoulder should've had – to stop her? To comfort her? One more laughable than the other. “Don't talk to me, Polo. _Please_. I can't think about you if I want to get on with my life.”

¤

Carla's room is dim, her curtains are closed, and her pillow is more black than silk now.

Once in a time, she used to think that she didn't care about people. Once, she used to pride herself in being rational and analytical and emotionless to a point. Once, she used to think that loyalty overrides everything. _Family._

Once, Marina wasn't dead. Once, she wasn't in love with Samuel. Once, she didn't have a clue what happiness or despair truly was. Once, she thought she didn't have emotions because all of her experiences were too superfluous to provoke any.

Now, all the stimuli are overly strong. She's on fire, in pain, shaking and whimpering and dying and doesn't know when it will stop. She thinks that probably never, when she has the strength to think before another encompassing surge swallows her whole.

“I'm sorry,” she chokes. “I'm so sorry.”

“Carla?”

 _Fuck._ All her sensory responses are heightened at once. She sits up rapidly, shakes, coughs out, shakes, sees her mother in the hallway, falls back on her bed.

“What's wrong?”

She doesn't even manage a _nothing_. She hears her mother's footsteps, hesitant and muted in the carpet. Carla would expect her to stand over her for two seconds, then shake her head and leave, if she had the capacity to make presumptions.

She doesn't. All she has is a will to dissolve into nothing, to drown in tears, to disappear and stop existing and hurting and-

Beatriz traces her back. It's there though she barely feels it.

“I'm a horrible person,” Carla chokes.

Beatriz sighs, touch halting. “Oh,” she says, almost inaudibly, and continues with a new determination against her spine.

Carla shakes violently, but her mother's presence is still palpable. She doesn't know for how long, but it isn't leaving.

It's helping.

“Madam, I'm so sorry, but somebody's at the door,” Carla barely hears.

Beatriz sighs and stands up. A few seconds later when her door clicks, Carla wonders whether it wasn't just a wistful dream.

¤

But then the door opens again, there's a displeased click of the lips merging with a heel landing on the floor, a shift of air with some gesture, an awkward _thank you_ and Carla, face-down on the bed, immediately stiffens.

“Samuel?”

Her tears stop falling instantly in shock. She springs up and wipes her eyes with her forearm, staring at the dark silhouettes in the doorframe.

“Go on,” her mother's voice says, vaguely irritated in response to an awkward hum in search for a confirmation.

“What's wrong?”

It's undeniably Samuel. His presence has the miraculous effect of stopping Carla's hour-long emotional breakdown instantly; the sheer confusion as she blinks between her mother, tight-lipped and still in the doorframe, Samuel approaching her with a weird face and her mother again. There's just no space to coordinate the production of tears.

“Samuel?” she gets out, more of a whisper or a stutter than anything else.

“What happened?”

Carla's eyes fick to the door again. Beatriz is as still as a statue.

Before she can stop it, her mouth opens on its own accord. It isn't to relieve the steadily growing concern in Samuel's eyes. No, instead it's to worsen her own. “Mum?”

It's a question within a question, one that all three of them understand. Samuel turns his head warily, too.

“Your father isn't home,” Beatriz' words don't sound like they could cut glass. Probably ice, though. “And yes, I let this – _young man_ in.”

Even though it answers both of the unspoken questions, it also doesn't help at all. Samuel awkwardly clears his throat. “I'm sorry for coming unannounced. I was just worried about C-”

“I know,” Beatriz says plainly, nods curtly. “That was visible.”

Carla's head is spinning on a centrifuge. She can't possibly form a coherent question, and there's statistically no chance she'll get a clarifying answer anyways, so she purses her lips and refocuses on Samuel. His eyes are wide, warm and way too sparkly, considering the situation he's in. “What are you doing here?” she asks. It sounds tired instead of annoyed.

“I-” Now it's Samuel who loses his thread. He turns his head to observe Carla's mother, reconsiders mid-way, stares back at Carla with urgency. She returns it to him.

How could she help him? This is completely uncharted territory.

“You weren't picking up your phone,” he mumbles quietly, close to her ear. Carla feels his breath on her skin. “You didn't show up.”

 _Oh_. There's the apprehension. “I was – busy.” _Crying._

“I can see that,” Samuel agrees carefully, putting his hanfd on Carla's cheek. Carla swears she can feel her mother scoff, even though she doesn't hear it. “What happened?”

“I- I don't know,” she lets her eyelids fall. Because she doesn't. “You know that feeling when something breaks and you can finally see the truth and then you-”

“-lose it,” Samuel finishes, no trace of judgment. Just broodily, kind of. “Yeah. Too well.”

“Well,” Carla inhales seeply, not trusting herself to look up. “That's what happened.”

Samuel doesn't talk, but his touch feels different. Less insecure, somehow; he moves the pad of his thumb slowly against her cheek, dry with salt.

Carla blinks and rehydrates it. “I realized I'm a horrible person,” she chokes on a fresh lump in her throat. “I just- I didn't-”

Samuel braces her in his arms gently, and she lets him despite the fact that his touch burns. Polo was right, but for a different reason: Carla doesn't deserve Samuel, it's as simple as that. Perhaps the only one she deserves is Polo.

Perhaps she doesn't even deserve Polo, because she was the one to ruin him, too. And it was her fault. The cover-up. The pain. The guilt.

Polo didn't want to do it. She _did_.

“You're not a horrible person, Carla,” Samuel says, and every false syllable lingers over her as it reaches the ceiling. “A horrible person wouldn't feel the way you do.”

Carla doesn't want to say any of the valid counter arguments that come to her mind, so she just cries into Samuel's shoulder. His arms are hugging her tightly, rocking from side to side.

“You're strong. It's admirable, really,” he continues. Each of his words is a heavy stone, pulling her down. “But you're also a good person, because your strength can't overbear your conscience.”

She'd snort if she wasn't busy crying. She'd snort because that's clearly true. And it's ruining her life.

Maybe she's destined to keep doing horrible things in the name of the greater good and then suffer.

“So trust me, you're not a horrible person. Everything you do is for someone,” Samuel's voice is melodically comforting. It shouldn't be, but it is. “You're the most selfless person I know. You're much better than me.”

It's a lie, but Carla stops crying. He doesn't let go of her, though, still rocking her like a baby and hushing sweet comforts into her ear.

“Samuel?” Her eyes are closed; she has no idea whether her mother's left or not.

“Yes?”

“I think I love you.”

The movement stills. Carla's eyes crack open; Beatriz is watching them, face stern.

Samuel is quiet.

“You don't have to say anything,” Carla peeps, buries her forehead in his t-shirt to lose sight of her mother while her thoughts twirl in panicky pirouettes laced with something she's never felt before. She doesn't even know whether it's good or not.

“I know I love you,” Samuel murmurs, almost inaudible, into the crane of her neck.

Beatriz coughs.

¤

“You approve of him,” Carla repeats disbelievingly, unsure she's heard right.

Beatriz presses her lips into a thin line. “Perhaps I didn't phrase that quite right.” Her expression softens somewhat as Carla's eyes fill with despair. “It is probably more fitting to say that I understand you.”

Carla doesn't even understand herself, so she doesn't know whether that's actually an improvement on her mother's side. She's not going to dwell on that, though, she won't put any of this at risk. “But you won't stop me from seeing him.”

The two seconds in which Beatriz stares at the painting behind Carla are the slowest two seconds to ever happen in the universe. Finally, with a glint of remorse, she takes mercy on Carla's visible anticipation and capitulates, accompanied by a huge release of relief. “No, I won't.”

Carla sits at the dining table and feels all of the oxygen leave her body just to return a split-second later, but rejuvanated and lively and floating through her veins.

She feels _alive_.

“Thank you,” she doesn't say composedly from her seat, elbows resting on the table. Instead, she stands up, makes two steps less graceful than appropriate and presses a kiss on her mother's cheek. “Thank you, mum.”

“You know that your father can't find out about this,” Beatriz remarks, stark. “And you can expect no help from me.”

“Of course,” Carla exhales, because she obviously does. She's not an idiot. She's also not in the mental state to be stressed about this right now. “I- I don't know what to say. Really, you're amazing, mum.”

“You forget that we've all been young once,” Beatriz nibbles on her lip uncharacteristically, but Carla doesn't hear it. She's already halfway down the corridor, fighting the urge to laugh, wildly, uninhibitedly.

For the first time in a year, she was given a real sliver of hope.

**Author's Note:**

> i hope you liked this despite the nonsensical optimism (or maybe because of it) thanks for reading and for your support <3  
> also scratch enemies to lovers, my new favourite trope is: beatriz isn't a cunt <3  
> tumblr: [loquenomedices](loquenomedices.tumblr.com)


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